


Wilco

by leiascully



Series: Five Times Kara Thrace Kissed A Girl And Liked It [2]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Community: smut_tuesdays, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-25
Updated: 2008-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Connection, sir."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilco

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Mid-S2  
> A/N: Happy [**smut_tuesdays**](http://community.livejournal.com/smut_tuesdays/)! I wrote some Starbuck/Roslin, mostly because it's hot. You are welcome to it.  
> Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this.

What surprises you most is how composed Laura Roslin still looks with three fingers inside you and her bra half off under her blouse.

You don't even know what you were looking for when you came to her office, except that you brought her the arrow and when she said thank you, something came undone inside you that hasn't been right since. Lee kissing you didn't help. Drinking doesn't help. You've been walking around jumpy and _off_, and if you don't fix it, it's going to throw off your flying and gods, not even for the old man would you let that happen, much less the President. So you requisition a shuttle and go to her office, and weirdly enough, there's nobody there except her, sitting there in a halo of light like Pallas Athene. She has her bare feet up on her desk. You're a little bit glad that pantyhose didn't seem to survive the apocalypse. Her legs are smooth and pale under the lamp.

"Lieutenant Thrace," she says with a smile, the kind that seems to startle her: it starts out slow and then breaks across her face like dawn.

"Madam President," you say, standing automatically at ease, or maybe you're just clutching your hands behind your back for comfort. You feel like you've got a broken gimbal. The room yaws around you.

"I do appreciate your efforts on Caprica to retrieve the arrow," she says, kicking her feet down and leaning on her elbows over her desk. It's a nice move that highlights her cleavage. She's wearing that white crossover blouse that makes you want to reach in and lift out her breasts the way you used to hold melons to your cheek at the market on Caprica, testing them for ripeness. "You have my gratitude."

"Thank you, sir." You're still standing there, feeling like an idiot. On the other hand, you don't want to leave. She looks so peaceful sitting there. You wonder if she touches you if it will rub off and whatever's twisted up inside of you will finally unwind.

"Was there anything else you needed, Lieutenant?" She takes off her glasses and sets them on the desk, all precise about it, but not uptight.

"You can call me Starbuck, sir," you say.

"Starbuck," she says, smiling. "Dare I ask how you acquired that callsign?" She leans forward a little, expectant.

"It's a long story, sir."

"You don't have to call me sir, Starbuck. My name is Laura."

"You're the commander-in-chief, sir. The old man brought me up right." You shift from foot to foot.

"Well," she says, hitching her shoulders up a little, which only emphasizes how flattering her shirt is, "it was worth a try. I have so few girlfriends these days. No one ever calls me by my name."

"I could call you Laura," you say, rolling it around in your mouth. "But not when I'm on duty."

"Are you on duty now?"

"No, sir. I mean, Laura."

She chuckles a little. "Old habits. It doesn't matter. It was just nice to hear it again."

"I don't know why I'm here," you blurt.

"That's all right," she says. "I don't mind the company. I gave my aides the night off. I thought I would enjoy the privacy, but I find it's oddly lonely. I've grown so accustomed to having people at my beck and call."

"Welcome to the military, sir," you say, smirking.

"Yes," she says, "after a fashion, I suppose." She leans back, looking thoughtful. "Something's missing, Kara."

"You feel it too?" you say before you can think.

"Day in and day out, we're all so _close_," she says. "The same fifty thousand people, over and over. The same three hundred people circulating in and out of this office, and on and off of Galactica. But there's never any _connection_. I imagine it's different for you pilots, but that's how it feels from here."

"You'd be surprised," you say. "Flying with someone, dying for someone, it doesn't always mean anything."

"I'm sorry about that," she says. "Life ought to mean something, or else why are we still running for it?"

You cross the room to kneel beside her and she turns toward you, her eyes crinkling in surprise. You fold your hands over her knee and look up at her. You feel like you do before the altar. The light makes her face glow.

"What is it, Kara?" she says gently, warmly. She puts her hand over yours.

"Connection, sir," you say, and her mouth looks so sweet that you can't help yourself pushing up and kissing her and oh, lords of Kobol, everything clicks together and you feel remade, hot out of the mold. Her hand comes up to graze your cheekbone and then she tangles her fingers in your hair. Your palms are braced on her thighs, half your hand on her skin where her skirt's pushed up. She kisses you back, willing and a little bit pushy, and you think, gods, the President's a woman too, and how alone she must be, on top of the world, without even the option to get stinking drunk and kiss somebody wrong. She has both hands in your hair now, pulling you closer, and you surrender and crawl into her chair, straddling her lap. The chair almost tips over and you both grab for the desk and then laugh. She catches you around the waist as you stand up so that you pull her up with you, and then she has you pressed against the desk, bending backwards as you push at her jacket with one hand, the other splayed behind the small of your back to hold you up. Her shirt is everything you hoped: once her jacket is off, it's so easy to slide your hand into the open neckline and under her bra. She hums against your mouth and unrucks your jacket from your trousers. You've never hated buttons more; you put on your uniform to come here, because it didn't seem right otherwise, but it takes so long for her fingers to finally brush your skin. When she touches you, her nails scraping your hipbone, you inhale sharply, squeezing at the catch of her bra until it pops, but you can't free her from it, because your hand and her bra are both caught in her shirt.

"Stuck," you say, not wanting to give up her mouth for long enough to string words together.

"Good," she says, and urges your hips back with hers until you have to hitch your ass onto the desk. You finally manage to get your hand loose and stick it up under the back of her blazer, still feeling for her bra clasp. She undoes your jacket buttons without stopping kissing you, still nudging you back until you're sitting on her desk and she's up on her toes. She grabs the open lapels of your jacket and drags her mouth down your cheek to your throat and then your chest. Your back arches and she eases you down onto her desk. There's a pen under your shoulder blade, and what seems to be her nameplate under the back of your head, but you can't care that much, because she's leaning over you, pushing up your shirt and your bra until they're both bunched under your arms and her mouth is on your nipple. You bite your lip to keep from yelping; her aides may have leave, but no one can stray far from her. Her mouth has a pull like the sun, and the same heat. You want to fall into her and be consumed.

She scalds your stomach with her lips. You're sure you'll have burns tomorrow. You almost relish the thought of the sting of your skin when your flightsuit makes you sweat, a reminder of her touch. Her fingers are branding your hips as she yanks down your trousers and your knickers with them just far enough to expose the tops of your thighs. She runs her palms over them and hums, setting her teeth against your hipbone. You bracket her thighs with your knees, trying to hitch her skirt up as you sit up, and she actually laughs at you and pushes you back down with one hand splayed between your breasts. You settle for hooking your calf over her ass and pressing her closer. She's still laughing when she twists her fingers into you and your whole world collapses into the space between your thighs. It's a strain for your blood to fill the rest of your body. Your lungs aren't working. There's just the touch of her fingers inside you and her other hand skating over your skin like you're clay that she's making into a person. Only when she braces her feet back and leans all the way down to kiss you do you remember how to breathe. Her stomach presses her hand farther into you; her thumb draws large, lazy circles of fire at odds with the fast rhythm her fingers are setting and you can't help whimpering when her nail grazes the crease of your thigh.

Your body's shaking so hard that the desk starts to rattle. She's touching you and the pressure of her fingers makes you spin out again, no way to hold yourself together, but now that's all you want. There's no doubt about your center now: her fingers slide in and out, spreading you open, bringing you back over and over to the place where her fingers touch and your brain shorts out like a navcom in front of a Cylon. There's a picture frame next to your head and you try to see who it is, but it's shivering so much and the light is so bright to your pleasure-blown eyes that the colors blur and you can't make out the faces. You're biting your lip. You'd cover your mouth with your arm if you didn't have them both thrown out over the desk as if you can keep yourself from flying into space by clutching at the smooth top of the desk and the flotsam of pens and papers. Instead you stare up at her, anchoring yourself in her eyes and the amused, lustful curve of her smile. Her breasts swell over the wrap of her shirt as she leans forward and you'd reach out for her if your back weren't arching the wrong way, if the palms of your hands weren't desperately flat on her desk.

"Come on, Kara," she whispers, and the huskiness of her voice sends another shiver through you. Listening to her talk is like scratching an itch you didn't know you had; you'd rub yourself raw against her words and her hands if she let you. You grit your teeth, on the edge of sobbing, because her touch goes all through you and you can feel every blood vessel in your body, every tiny twitching muscle, and it's too much. "Is this connection, Kara?" she asks, throaty, an edge of amused need in the words, and you open your mouth to tell her yes as she makes a rough swipe with her thumb and your head snaps back. Noise rushes up from your belly up through your throat like the slam of flame at ignition. You're saying something, not really words, but you think she understands. Your body clutches at her the way you want to; you want to hold on through the tremors and the shivering until your heart is back to a slow beat and you can see colors again instead of the black inside your own skull. She leans down and works her arm around you, helping you up. You set your chin on her shoulder, breathing in the smell of her hair.

After a long moment, she slides her fingers out of you. You fumble with your shirt, holding out the corner for her, and she smiles at you and lets you wipe your moisture off her hand and kiss the tips of her fingers. She steps back and helps you off the desk. You lean on her.

"I'm not sure I can stand up," you say, shaking your hair back.

"That is absolutely the effect I was hoping for," she says, smug as hell.

"Well, Laura," you say, putting a little extra emphasis into her name just to watch her eyes narrow, "no one could question your methods."

Somebody knocks at the door and you let your knees buckle, tucking yourself under the desk. You press your cheek to the cool wood, gulping for air, your breath making a damp patch next to your hand.

"Madam President?"

She shoots you a keep-quiet look. "Yes, Billy?"

"Are you all right?" His voice is muffled by the door, but he still sounds worried.

"I'm fine. Is something wrong?"

"You were...shouting."

"I must have been dreaming," she says. You reach around her heel and pull her foot onto your lap, nuzzling up the smooth bone of her shin. Her toes twitch and curl. "I'll see you tomorrow, Billy."

"Good night, Madam President," he says obediently. You hold your breath for a long moment, your lips on the inside of her knee, and then she bursts out laughing.

"Ooooh, gods," she says, flopping back in her chair. "It would be Billy."

"Forget Billy," you say, finally pushing her skirt up enough to rub your face along her inner thigh. "My shuttle doesn't leave for another hour and a half. If you don't have anything else on your agenda, I can think of some ways to pass the time."

"Innovation seems to be your watchword, Lieutenant," she says, raising one eyebrow, her cheeks flushing a little.

"I serve at the pleasure of the President," you say, trying to be outrageous, and she laughs.

"Well, then, carry on."

"Wilco, sir."

"One of these days," she says, "you really are going to have to explain this strange military lingo to me." And then, for a long while, she says nothing intelligible at all.


End file.
